


But you stood apart (in my calloused heart)

by ElixirBB



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Some coarse language, based on trailer and promo pics, brief brief mention of sex, not much to warn you about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 07:26:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElixirBB/pseuds/ElixirBB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Molly Hooper's lie that hurts the most. It's also the one be believed in the most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But you stood apart (in my calloused heart)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ambur](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Ambur).



> Title taken from Frank Turner's song "The way I tend to be."

It’s funny, the amount of people who have lied to him in his life.

 

His father (he said he would be back in a couple of hours, “keep practicing your violin, Sherlock. I’m quite proud of your progress.” Except, he doesn’t come back in a couple of hours and Sherlock still plays the violin, a miniscule, almost non-existent part of him, still looking to the door, hoping to see the father who left him over twenty years ago.)

 

Mycroft (“you’re special, Sherlock.” It turns out special and abnormal and almost _always_ , freakish, are _apparently_ the same thing.)

 

Sebastian Wilkes (his first real friend, or at least Sherlock thought he was. “Just take it, it’ll help clear your mind and everything will disappear.” So, Sherlock takes the heroin offered and registers the faint smug smirk on Sebastian’s face as he tumbles down the path of addiction.)

 

Victor Trevor (“You can count on me.” Except he can’t. Sherlock doesn’t blame him. He pushed and pushed and taunted until Victor surrendered, throwing his hands up and turning away, disappearing into a crowd of nameless people, letting Sherlock sink the needle deeper into his skin and send him reeling into the abyss.)

 

John Watson (“You saved me, you know.” He didn’t. At least, not really. Not completely, if anything, he broke him more when he took, for a lack of a better term, a swan dive off of Bart’s rooftop.)

 

Molly Hooper (“I’ll wait for you. Always.” She tells him softly, when she thinks he’s sleeping, soft fingertips brushing stray curls from his forehead.)

 

It’s funny, he thinks, that out of all the people who have lied to him in his life, Molly Hooper’s lie hurts the most.

 

(It’s the one he believed in the most. The one he kept carved into the walls of his mind palace, beckoning him home, when everything became too much and he started to lose his sense of self. She was always there, with her soft promise, anchoring him back to a reality that kept slipping away from him.)

* * *

Her hands are shaking as she sits on her knees, pillow below her as she shifts into a comfortable position. Her hair is up in a ponytail, trailing down her back. She blinks and takes in a deep breath and looks at him, concern flitting through her eyes. “Are you sure?”

 

It would have been better for him to have one of Mycroft’s people (the original plan was to have one of Mycroft’s people) fix him up but when he woke up, after falling off the rooftop and cheating suicide, he saw Molly. Molly, with her hands clasped together, knuckles white and gnawing at her lip, waiting patiently for him to wake up, with fear, worry and concern clouding her brown eyes. It occurred to him then, groaning in pain and feeling her soft hands hold him carefully, that he wanted to heal with her, around her. (For the main reason that she is familiar. Besides Mycroft and Anthea, she’s the only person who knows he’s alive…at least, this is what he makes himself believe.)

 

(She’s the only one who counts.)

 

So, he allows his feet to trail him back to a familiar flat, occupied by a familiar presence, and watching her through hooded eyes as she takes a deep shaky breath and tends to his wounds. She’s careful and precise (the way she always is) and he doesn’t mind her seeing him at his most vulnerable. (She’s seen him at his worst, the drugs overtaking his body and mind and he remembers the look of complete fear, not for herself, never for herself, but for him, and he pushed and pushed and taunted and despite the tears that streamed down her face, she stayed. Against all odds, when everyone else had left, Molly Hooper stayed.)

 

He tells himself it’s the pain and the depleting adrenaline that lulls him to sleep and not the sound of her breathing. His head nestled against the pillows, he vaguely feels her getting up and hearing the soft pattering around her flat and he feels when she comes back to her spot, her fingers running through his sweat-matted curls and leaning her forehead against his temple, whispering softly, her breath hot in his ear, “I’ll wait for you. Always.”

* * *

He asks Mycroft to look after her. To ensure her safety.

 

His brother looks at him and tells him that she’s already being looked after. That she has been looked after since the first time Sherlock met her as an intern at Bart’s. “She made you better when no one else could.”

 

(Sherlock doesn’t disagree.)

* * *

She gives him small smiles, laced with concern whenever he appears in her flat. (And for the record, Sherlock vehemently insists that he never intended to visit her. His feet always took him to the familiar flat with the familiar presence, her promise echoing in the walls and reminding him that despite the violence and death, there are still things worth coming home to.)

 

His chest does something funny, it clenches and hurts whenever he looks at her, his pulse races and his hands become clammy and he tells her in a certain voice, “Molly, I believe I am showing signs of an infection.”

 

It’s not an infection, but she doesn’t say anything, instead, she just bites her lip and pieces him back together again.

* * *

He doesn’t tell her that he heard her, the night before he left her flat to dismantle and destroy Moriarty’s network. He doesn’t tell her that he dreams of her fingers running through his hair, or of her voice, whispering in his ear, her breath hot against his face, _“I’ll wait for you. Always.”_ He doesn’t tell her how much he would like that.

 

He doesn’t tell her any of those things.

 

(In hindsight, he should have.)

* * *

There is something different about her. The way she holds herself. The way her hands have stopped shaking. She still gives him small smiles laced with concern, but there’s another emotion, one that looks like guilt.

 

He doesn’t dwell much on it.

 

(He should have.)

* * *

“You need to stop going to Doctor Hooper.” Mycroft tells him.

 

“Why is that?”

 

Mycroft doesn’t say anything and instead, Anthea steps from behind him and places three photographs of three very different, very _dead_ men. Her schooled facial expression fades just slightly and the look she gives him is one of sympathy, before her walls are up and she’s back to being Anthea, PA to the British government. “I don’t know who they are.” But he knows _what_ they are, from their build to the evidence left behind, they’re trained killers. _Assassins_ …and his breath catches in his throat. His chest plunges to his stomach and he suddenly feels sick.

 

“These three men tried to kill Doctor Hooper. Three different attempts. Three different failures. The fourth time may not be so fortunate.”

 

“Is she…?” He trails off, unsure of how to phrase the question without croaking.

 

“She is unaware of the attempts made on her life.” He hears the undertones of _my men are trained professionals; please do give me some credit._

 

Sherlock waits until both Mycroft and Anthea have left and then he gets up and lets his feet take him back to a familiar flat with a familiar presence.

 

( _One last time_ , he thinks wildly, _one last time_.)

 

He killed himself to protect his friends, but, as he clenches and unclenches his fists, he finds that he should have killed to protect Molly Hooper. He doesn’t bother to question it and decides that the instinct to protect her was always there. Since the first time he met her as an intern at Bart’s.

* * *

When he sees her, alive and well, he’s torn between feeling elated and clenching his fists and wanting to hit something ( _someone_ , most definitely _someone_.) Despite take a reprieve from being the world’s only Consulting Detective to tear down the world’s only Consulting Criminal’s network; he still deduces everything to a fine point. It helps keeps him sane (it helps remind him that he’s not like them, he will never be like them.) But he finds himself cursing his ability to read people so intimately.

 

He doesn’t know why he almost ( _almost_ , but not quite, he catches himself just in time) staggers back when he realizes that Molly Hooper has had sex in the last twelve hours. Her cheeks are red and she’s biting her lip, not out of concern but to stop from smiling because she’s happy. She’s happy and he has _nothing_ to do with it.

 

(Did he ever make her happy? Did he ever make her laugh? Or did he just make her question her self-worth?)

 

One look around the flat and he knows the man stays over three times a week. There are men’s shoes by the door, books that don’t belong to Molly on the living room table, a coat hanging on the rack by the door.

 

“Sherlock?” Her voice pulls him out of his rapid thoughts and he recoils when her hand brushes against his arm. His chest tightens at the hurt look that crosses her face. She pulls her hand back, letting it fall to her side. “Are you alright? Did something happen?”

 

_Yes_. He wants to lash out at her, _you lied_. _You were the one person who was never supposed to lie to me._ He blinks, his throat suddenly dry, “what’s his name?” His voice is deeper, raspier than normal.

 

She looks ashamed, guilt flooding her eyes (and he gets it now. It all makes sense now) “Tom.” She says quietly. “His name is Tom.”

 

He turns around, the flat (the familiar flat with the familiar presence) engulfing him, choking him, and leaves in the dead of the night.

 

(She’s doesn’t call out to him and beg him to come back. She _can’t_. After all, he is a dead man.)

 

(Sometimes, in his darkest moments, he wishes he _did_ die falling off of Bart’s rooftop.)

* * *

When he gets back to dismantling Moriarty’s network, he locks the door to Molly’s room, in his mind palace, effectively forgetting about her.

 

(His most brutal kill is a mercenary named Tom. He doesn’t stop to think what that means.)

* * *

He fumbles with the collar of his shirt, hands clenching and unclenching.

 

It’s been three years. Three very long years of losing and trying to find himself in a world that believes him dead and a fraud.

 

But the three years of waiting and hunting and of being alone (he never used to be alone, his feet would always somehow take him back to a familiar flat with a familiar presence, her promise resonating off the walls and carving its place in his mind palace) have come to a close, with Moriarty’s network dismantled and destroyed and now he’s _home_.

 

He looks at his reflection in the mirror and sees Mycroft stare back. There are no words exchanged, just the slightest of nods, a silent _thank you_ and a never spoken _your welcome_ , floating through the air and settling between them.

 

Sherlock straightens his back and walks out the door, pulling his Belstaff closer to him to ward off the cold.

 

He walks into the restaurant and sees John and knows the empty space across from him belongs to Mary (his fiancé, or rather, would-be fiancé, _will_ be if John manages to still propose tonight.)

 

He takes her seat, if only for a few moments and looks up at John who reels back in shock. There is a moment of silence before John clenches his jaw and leans forward, his fist catching his cheekbone. “You bloody bastard.”

 

Despite the pain radiating through his face, Sherlock smirks.

 

(He’s back in London. He’s _home_ …and yet, there is a hole in the pit of his stomach telling him that _home_ isn’t all it used to be.)

* * *

It takes him a few days to allow himself to even leave 221b Baker Street. Not only because the media is unbearable (they are) and not only because Mrs. Hudson’s lip trembles every time he even moves towards the door (it does) and not only because John and Mary have barricaded him in the living, demanding he tell them what happened the past three years (they have and for someone so tiny, Mary Morstan has quite the glare and all the assertion that Sherlock pretends to be annoyed with but admires in her.)

 

He knows, without a shadow of doubt, that if he were to leave 221b Baker Street, his feet would lead him to a familiar flat with a familiar presence (the _only_ presence that occupies every room in his mind palace and made it her permanent home) and Sherlock…Sherlock isn’t ready to face her.

 

(Because for years, he’s known Molly Hooper to be in love with him and knowing that she isn’t anymore, actually coming face-to-face with that fact and seeing her with someone else, seeing her happy with someone else, isn’t something he’s ready to bear witness to.)

 

(Because Molly Hooper counts. Because out of all the people Moriarty thought counted, he failed to realize the one who counted most.)

 

He looks back at Mrs. Hudson, as she watches him put on his coat and scarf and gives him a trembling smile and nods, as if knowing where he’s going. “I’ll be back.” He tells her.

 

“I know you will.” She says.

 

She stays rooted to her spot as Sherlock leaves the flat and into the bitter cold of London’s winter.

 

_(“I’ll wait for you. Always.”)_

* * *

He attributes it to the cold that makes his hand shake as he knocks on her flat door. He could have easily picked the lock, or he could have used the fire escape, as he did so many times in the past, but somehow he thinks she wouldn’t appreciate that anymore. He thinks her coming into her living room, to see him occupying her couch, lost in thought, isn’t something she would welcome.

 

(For a moment, he thinks he’s overreacting and maybe nothing has changed. Maybe, he’s thinking the worst of things. Maybe, Molly Hooper has waited for him. Maybe, Tom was just a distraction, something, someone, to ease the loneliness. Maybe, she would welcome him with open arms, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing her body to his and burying her head into his neck, breath hot as she repeats _“you’re back. Don’t leave me. Don’t ever leave me.”_ )

 

The door opens and his head snaps up, only to be met with a tall man with black hair, brown eyes and a crooked smile (he used to box, accountant, paints in his spare time, two younger sisters, parents divorced, he likes cats), there’s a slight pause, the man’s ( _Tom_ ) mouth gaping before he closes it and gives him a nod, “Sherlock Holmes. I’ve heard great things about you.”

 

Sherlock gives him a tight smile. “Shouldn’t trust what you read.”

 

“No.” Tom agrees, “But I trust Molly.”

 

“Tom?” Her voice is soft as she makes her way through the flat, “who’s at the door-” She cuts herself off when she peers around Tom and sees Sherlock. “Sherlock.” She breathes.

 

If he were any other man, Sherlock’s breath would have shuttered. He would have closed his eyes and allowed the sound of her voice to echo in his head. But he isn’t any other man. He’s Sherlock Holmes and he doesn’t _do_ sentiment. “Molly.”

 

Tom looks between the two of them and retreats into the flat. “I’ll be inside.” He says quietly. “You two should maybe come in.”

 

“Yes, of course, you can-”

 

“No.” Sherlock interrupts her. He _can’t._ He can’t go back into the flat. Not as he’s looking in and sees Tom settle on the couch ( _his_ couch), where Molly spent nights on bended knees, piecing him back together. He can’t go back into the flat and think back to that one night and a broken promise etched into the confines of his mind. “I just came to tell you I’m back.”

 

She looks hurt and for one vindictive moment, all Sherlock can think is, _now you know how I feel_ , “I know.” She says, “Mycroft…he let me know the day before you came back.” She grips the open door until her knuckles were white. “I was…I mean I…” she trails off, biting her lip and leaning against the door for support, “how are you?”

 

_Tired. Broken. Lost. Confused_. “Fine.” He says. “I’m fine.” He gives her the same tight smile he gave Tom, “wouldn’t want to intrude on your _date_ anymore than I have.”

 

She frowns and reaches out for him, only to stop mid-air when he takes a step back.

 

Her hand falls back to her side, arm hanging limply, fingers twitching. “Sherlock.” She says, her voice still soft, still haunting.

 

He blinks (longer than he would have liked) and stares at her, willing her to say something (anything).

 

She clears her throat; “I’ll see you at the morgue then?”

 

He nods slowly, feeling as if he’s been punched in the gut, “yes.”

 

(He doesn’t bother hailing a cab; he doesn’t bother protecting himself from the wind that whips around his body, chilling him. He walks desolately towards 221b Baker Street, whispers of _“I’ll wait for you. Always,”_ shadowing his every step.)

* * *

His fingers are numb as he unbuttons his coat and pulls it off along with his scarf, throwing them on the couch as he makes his way towards the roaring fireplace.

 

He hears the creaking of the floorboards and he sighs, “he looks like me.”

 

“He does, doesn’t he?” Mary agrees quietly as she stands next to him. Her hands extended, the glittering diamond coming to life amongst the flames. “He’s a good man.” She says after a few moments of silence. “He makes her happy. He makes her laugh.”

 

Sherlock swallows hard, staring into the flames. “Why are you telling me this?” He doesn’t _want_ to know. Doesn’t need to know the man she _needs_ and the man he’ll _never_ be.

 

Mary cocks her head to the side and gives him a small sympathetic and solemn glance. “I’m so sorry, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock watches as he brings his hands to the mantle and idly picks at the wood, “it wasn’t your doing. I lost her all on my own.” He admits.

* * *

He goes to the morgue because it’s his second home. It’s where he’s most comfortable.

 

Molly helps him still. She pulls out bodies with a steady confidence and she still hands him body parts to experiment on, smiling at John’s groans of discontent. She’s still a permanent fixture in the lab and when he prattles on about cases, listening closely and offering her own expert knowledge about the dead and the evidence they leave behind.

 

“It’s good, isn’t it?” She asks him suddenly one day. “getting back to normal, I mean.”

 

He doesn’t answer her and instead goes back to his slides, stomach heavy.

 

(Nothing is normal anymore. Because despite her still helping and aiding him, she’s still not the same Molly as she once was. And maybe, maybe, he doesn’t even want the _same_ Molly, he just wants _his_ Molly.)

* * *

John and Mary’s wedding is a small affair; it’s outside, on the first day of summer, the sun shining gloriously.

 

Molly is wearing yellow as she stands two down from Mary.

 

(The maid-of-honor is giving him seductive looks but he only has eyes for Molly.)

* * *

The third time the maid-of-honor lets her hands _accidently_ slip to his arse while he’s _required_ to dance with her, he leaves her in the middle of the dance floor, grabbing Molly by the wrist as one of John’s army buddies is twirling her and pulls her close to him. Molly giggles and Sherlock glowers until the man shrinks away and asks the maid-of-honor to dance.

 

“You’re supposed to be dancing with Jennifer.”

 

“ _Jennifer_ ,” he says, spitting out the name, “has zero intelligence and she’s blatantly sexually harassing me while her boyfriend whom, by the way, is married with two children, is in the crowd.”

 

Molly snorts and moves with the music.

 

This…this feels _nice_. It feels… _normal_. He looks up and sees Mary and John, tilting their glasses of champagne in their direction. He sees Lestrade leading Mrs. Hudson out on the dance floor and hears protests of “my hip isn’t what it used to be,” and he even spots Mycroft, looking entirely out of place as Anthea twiddles away on her mobile, occasionally speaking to Mycroft who nods systematically.  

 

And then he looks down at Molly. Molly’s whose cheeks are flushed, Molly who looks radiant in yellow. Molly who smiles and laughs and talks to people she doesn’t even know. Molly, who has dug her way into his cold, black and non-existent heart, without even knowing it.

 

(He thinks now is as good a time as any to release her from a promise that she doesn’t even know she’s being held to.)

 

“Tom asked me to marry him.” Molly confesses.

 

Sherlock stops moving, the hand around her waist tightens and his head snaps up, eyes searching until they land on Tom, who is staring at them, from his place at the table.

 

He looks down at Molly and steps away from her, arms coming back to his sides. From his peripheral vision, he can see Mary and John stand to attention, craning their necks to look at them. He blinks hard and rapidly against the sudden stinging in his eyes and the sudden roaring pain in his chest, mind and body. His eyes trail down to her hands, where her ten fingers are bare. “You haven’t given him an answer yet.”

 

“Not yet.”

 

There is a ball in the back of his throat and the summer heat is starting to suffocate him. “But you’re going to say yes.”

 

“I think so.”

 

He nods and breathes deeply, “he makes you happy, then?”

 

She wrings her hands together and (he’s brought back to a distant memory of waking up, his body torn, bloodied and bruised and seeing Molly, biting her lip with her hands clasped together, looking at him with worry, concern, fear and _love_ ), “yes.”

 

He places his hands around her waist and pulls her to him, slowly, carefully and bends his head so that his lips graze her cheek. He feels her body stiffen and feels the way she reacts to his lips on her skin. “Congratulations, Molly Hooper.” And then he steps away, turns around and walks off the dance floor, past people he doesn’t know and doesn’t care to know, past Mycroft and Anthea, past Tom who is looking between Sherlock’s retreating back and Molly’s still form on the dance floor, fingertips grazing the spot his lips laid claim to her.

 

He walks and walks until he loses himself.

 

(And he finds that he still cannot let her go.)

* * *

The day after the wedding, someone knocks on his flat door but he doesn’t get up. John and Mary have already left for their honeymoon, Mrs. Hudson is baking, Lestrade is working, Mycroft is running the country and Molly…Molly is undoubtedly enjoying being engaged.

 

The doorbell rings this time and he can hear Mrs. Hudson’s grumbling and the door opening and closing. He can hear muffled voices and it isn’t until he opens his eyes (odd, when did he close them?) does he see himself.

 

Or rather, someone who _looks_ like him. Sherlock sits up and stares at Tom who stands uncomfortably.

 

Silence reigns supreme between the two of them, until Tom sighs and sits down on the chair across from him. “Do you love her?” He asks, leaning forward, placing his elbows on his knees. “Molly. Do you love her?”

 

And because there have been enough lies in his life, Sherlock opts for the simple truth. “Yes.”

 

“I thought so.”

 

“She loves you.” Sherlock tells him.

 

Tom gives him a smile, full of sadness and lost opportunities. “She does love me. I’ve never doubted that, but she’s not _in_ love with me.” He gets up and makes his way to the door, “in fact, she’s in love with the world’s only not-so-dead Consulting Detective.” There is a slight pause before Tom speaks again, “just promise me you won’t…you won’t hurt her, okay?” Tom stares at him a bit longer and then he sighs, a forlorn expression on his face as he leaves 221b Baker Street.

 

(In his own solitude, Tom’s words echo and swirl in Sherlock’s head, and even though no one can hear him, no one is there to witness this one admission, this one sliver of sentiment that he promised never to convey, he says, softly, quietly, “I promise.”)

* * *

It takes him a couple of days of pacing and shooting smiley faces at the wall, until he makes his way to Bart’s.

 

(Really, it’s Mary telling him, _threatening_ him, that if he doesn’t get his “bloody arse off that fucking couch and do something about it, you’re going to watch as some other bloke comes in and sweeps her off her feet and chances are, Sherlock, he won’t be as understanding and compassionate as Tom was, so stop being so scared and embrace the fact that you like, quite possibly, _love_ , Molly.”

 

He pauses in his step and then turns around, staring at Mary who is glaring at him and John who is hiding behind the paper, stifling his laughter. “I am, aren’t I?”

 

Mary rolls her eyes, “No shit, Sherlock. Honestly, John, you told me he’s a genius. I feel like I’ve been duped.”)

 

He knows her schedule (he’s always known her schedule, even when it changed) and bypasses the morgue, going directly to the lab. He sees her through the doors, side facing him and watches as she works intensely. Scribbling on a notepad, adjusting knobs on the microscope, going through test after test with precision.

 

(It’s what he admires most about her, her tendency and thirst for knowledge that rivals even his own.)

 

He opens the door and she doesn’t turn around, doesn’t even notice his entrance.

 

He clears his throat and he hears her gasp, turning around and stumbling, catching herself on the edge of the bench. He should say _sorry_ , he should tell her that Tom came to see him and he should ask her if, by some stroke of miracle, she’s still in love with him. He should say a lot of things. Instead, when he opens his mouth, he says, “you lied to me.”

 

She frowns and looks up at him quizzically, her nose crinkling in her confusion. “What?”

 

“At your flat. After…after that first night. You thought I was sleeping but I wasn’t and I heard you when you said, _I’ll wait for you. Always._ But you didn’t and it was wrong for me to hold you to a promise that you were unaware you had even made.”

 

She straightens her back but still fiddles with her fingers. “You _left_ me. You came to my flat one night and then left, never to be heard of. I thought you were dead. _Really dead_. Mycroft wouldn’t tell me anything. Anthea wouldn’t tell me anything and I was going mad out of my mind. And then…then…Tom came and he _looked_ like you and sometimes…sometimes…he even _reminded_ me of you and he _cared_. When Mycroft told me you were coming back, I _waited_ for you. All day. And then the next day and the next day and you made me feel as if everything I did for you, _didn’t count_ at all.” She takes in a deep shaky breath; brown eyes shining with unshed tears and voice heavy with restrained emotion. “For over ten years, I have been in love with you and God help me, I most likely always will. So…Sherlock, I _did_ wait for you. You just…you never…saw it. Saw me.”

 

“Molly,” he says, crossing the distance between them and placing a hand over hers. “I did see it. For over ten years, I saw _you_. I will _always_ see you.” Hoping against all hope, she understands what he’s saying, what he’s trying to convey with these words.

 

She lets out a laugh and curls her fingers through his. “Sherlock?” She says, rising on her toes, her lips ghosting across his, breath hot against his face. “ _I’ll wait for you. Always_.”

 

He gives her a small smile, “promise?” He teases.

 

“I promise.”

 

(They meet somewhere in the middle; the promise made, firmly pressed between them, echoing in their heads and carving its place within their minds, bodies and hearts.)

* * *

It’s funny, really, the amount of times people have lied to him in his life.

 

But it’s Molly Hooper’s promise that means the most to him. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Ambur, who requested a story, like ages agi. Darling…fucking finally yeah? This…probably isn’t what you expected or even wanted but I do sincerely hope you enjoy it! You’re wicked and awesome and amazing! This story is based on the new Sherlock trailer and promo pics that came up. You all know what ones I’m talking about! wink wink nudge nudge* Again, I sincerely hope you all enjoy it! 
> 
>  
> 
> Sorry, I’ve been such a shitty person you guys. Life just…ack, life got in the way and then I started watching all these shows and oh my God, before I knew it, it’s December. Like seriously, time, come back. Don’t do this to me.  
> Thank you all so much for your continued support! I hope you’ve all enjoyed!  
> You guys are just so amazing and wonderful!  
> MAD LOVE AND RESPECT!  
> BB


End file.
